Mrs. Little saw her son arrive, met him in the hall, and embraced him, with a great cry of maternal joy, that did his heart good for a moment.
He had to tell her all; and, during the recital, she often clasped him to her bosom.
When he had told her all, she said: “Much as I love you, darling, I am ready to part with you for good: there is a cure for all your griefs; there is a better woman in this house than ever Grace Carden was or will be. Be a man; shake off these miserable trammels; leave that vacillating girl to nurse her villain, and marry the one I have chosen for you.”
Henry shook his head. “What! when a few months perhaps will free my Grace from her incumbrance. Mother, you are giving me bad advice for once.”
“Unwelcome advice, dear, not bad. Will you consult Dr. Amboyne? he sleeps here to-night. He often comes here now, you know.” Then the widow colored just a little.
“Oh yes, I know; and I approve.”
Dr. Amboyne came to dinner. In the course of the evening he mentioned his patient Coventry, and said he would never walk again, his spine was too seriously injured.
“How soon will he die? that is what I want to know,” said Henry, with that excessive candor which the polite reader has long ago discovered in him, and been shocked.
“Oh, he may live for years. But what a life! An inert mass below the waist, and, above it, a sick heart, and a brain as sensitive as ever to realize the horrid calamity. Even I, who know and abhor the man's crimes, shudder at the punishment Heaven inflicts on him.”
There was dead silence round the table, and Little was observed to turn pale.